Playing Games
by Karu-DarkAngel
Summary: Natasha Romanoff, Clint Barton, a bullet, a cabin in the alps and a drinking game that is way more than that. One-Shot. BlackHawk


**A/N: Clint and Natasha, another one. It's a bit of everything this time... actually the story was supposed to be some 3,000 words long, but I just don't have it in me to cut these two short. As always the story fits in with my other ones but having read them isn't a necessity.  
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**Warnings: **various mature themes (sex, violence...)

**Disclaimer: **I don't own the Marvel universe, I don't own the Avengers, I don't own Clint and Natasha.**  
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_Bernese Alps, May 1998_

Natasha knows many kinds of mission. The easy ones, the bloody ones, the annoying ones, the in-kill-out ones, the ones that are fucked up beyond all recognition… Clint Barton however has just introduced her to a new type she instantly knows she hates: the one where he takes a bullet for her.

The wound isn't life-threatening and he will heal in time, but that doesn't diminish her fury in the slightest – because that shot was aimed at her and he had _absolutely_ no business stepping in the way of a bullet that wasn't intended for him in the first place.

"You are a fucking idiot, Clint." she hisses at him when she half drags, half carries him to the _Alm_ they will be staying in for the night.

Her level of familiarity when addressing him is usually a good indication for how pissed the Widow is with her partner. On missions he is usually just _Hawkeye_, when they are arguing and she feels rather playful it's _hawk_, _Barton_ is for the moments she is really pissed with him and _Clint_ is only used when they are alone and she seriously wants to main him.

He winces a little at the use of his first name, _and damn well he should_, she thinks while Natasha pushes the man into the little cabin huddled against the side of the mountain and closes the door behind them forcefully.

It is completely dark inside the hut, the shutters closed to keep the cold and the wind out, but she knows where the gas lamp is standing on the cupboard beside the entrance and Barton… well, he is _Hawkeye_ after all. His eyesight better not leave him now, because she is too pissed at the moment to pick him from the floor in anything resembling a gentle manner if he decides to kiss the earth.

After she has lighted another lamp there is at least enough light to navigate through the cabin without major incidents. More or less.

Turning around she focuses on her partner once more, who his carefully leaning against the wall of the room, blood running down his right shoulder despite the hand he has pressed tight against the wound – Natasha growls, _almost sighs_, and then walks over to the generator they agreed on to _not_ use beforehand.

If he were anyone else she would just let him sit there and bleed to almost-death until the extraction team comes to pick them up tomorrow, but it's his dominant arm and _he took that damn bullet for her_.

She has to get the thing out of him – preferably before he blacks out – and even the Black Widow is neither good nor daring enough to try and pull that stunt if she can barely see her outstretched hand. So the generator it is, and after not even a minute the quite humming signals that the machine is working, the single light bulb clicking on and letting her see the grimace on his face.

_That's what he gets for being so stupid_, a part of her comments, while another makes it known that seeing Clint Barton in pain inflicted by anything other than her own hands is clearly _not_ acceptable.

He takes the hand she offers to help him up, neither of them flinching when his blood stained fingers grip her own, the still warm liquid making her hold on tighter to not accidently slip from his grasp. They are both used to having blood on their hands – though usually it is not their own.

Carefully supporting as much of his weight as he lets her, Natasha leads him over to the pile of blankets and pillows that serves as a makeshift bed in the tiny-as-fuck cabin. It clearly isn't much, but it keeps one from freezing to death in the cold. He will be weakened enough when she is done with him, and after having survived a shot a point-blank she refuses to let nature finish off what trained killers couldn't.

"Don't move." it's crisp and to the point. _It's an order_.

Not bothering to make sure whether or not Clint really obeys she is already up again. Every minute wasted is a minute her partner looses more blood, and that fact and her anger make her stride through the hut in swift, precise steps.

They are lucky because there are two bottles of good vokda – the kind that doesn't freeze even in these temperatures – in the cupboard beside the sink. It's not pain meds, but it has to do to keep him from passing out.

Putting the alcohol down beside him the Widow pulls the hood of her parka over her head, grabs the bucket by the door and heads out of the cabin, coming back a minute later to start melting snow on the gas cooker. When the water is boiling she pulls it down and starts to form a spoon into something resembling a scalpel. The end result isn't satisfying at all, but it's not like she has an alternative.

All in all her preparations haven't even taken ten minutes, and the master assassin is pleased to note that one of the bottles is half empty when she kneels down beside the hawk.

"Do you want something to bite down on?" she asks coolly, arranging her tools beside the bed, not even sparing the man lying a feet away from her a glance – because if anyone knows how much a wound to your pride can hurt it's her.

If he were a clever man he would've just answered in the affirmative, bitten down on a piece of cloth and been glad for it when she started to cut his flesh – but then again if he was she wouldn't have made the offer in the first place. Clint Barton is a proud man, and maybe one day this is what will get him killed… but until then it makes him one of the best.

"You didn't scream." is all he answers, their eyes finally meeting over the stack of blankets.

Natasha wants to _laugh_, to simply throw her head back and laugh at the childishness of the gesture, but she can't because there is no way he knows the true meaning the words hold for her. To him it is just about proving himself to her, and for that she is so _incredibly_ grateful.

"Your pain tolerance and my pain tolerance are not on a level you can compare." the redhead tells her partner gently, moving over to straddle his hips – there will be no further discussion, she respects Barton too much to force something on him against his wishes.

A faint growl escapes his lips when she presses his arm into the ground with one hand and cuts his shirt with the other, careful to keep the pressure low to not accidently damage his skin. The mix of dried and fresh blood makes the fabric stick to his body, and another growl vibrates in her ear when she has to use force to get the garment off.

The position they are in has the potential of being sexual, she is very well aware of that fact, as is Clint whose left hand is now on her hip both to keep her steady and to have something to hold on to, but at the moment there is simply too much pain involved to make the experience enjoyable.

Throwing the scraps of bloodied cloth to the side Natasha wets a towel and starts to clean his chest, pleased to note the absence of scars on his skin – her movements are swift and precise and it doesn't even take a minute before she is done, the now slowly bleeding wound in stark contrast to the hawk's lightly tanned skin.

She takes the bottle of vodka then, using all the strength in her thighs and arm to keep him down when she pours the alcohol over the wound, her partner's nails digging into her hip painfully even through the layer of clothing covering her skin.

It's over in seconds, and he exhales slowly when she puts the now mostly empty bottle away. His muscles however are still tense under her, coiled to strike.

"You have to relax." the Widow tells her partner, "Fighting the pain only makes it worse."

He doesn't deign to give a response, just looks at her with a knitted brow and anger burning strong in his stormy grey eyes, and Natasha actually sighs. He will not listen to her, can't – she understands, he hasn't been taught to deal with pain like she has – but that will only make it more of an ordeal for him.

Accepting the fact that getting the bullet out of Clint will be long, hard work, she steels herself… and on an afterthought gets up and gets the trash can from the other side of the room to place it beside him on the ground.

"Tell me if you're going to vomit." is the only warning she gives him before she goes to work.

To his credit he doesn't even scream once, but by the time she has finally wrested the tiny piece of metal from her partner's body Natasha is still as soaked in sweat as Clint Barton is – a smug little smile tugs on her lips when she lifts the bullet up to examine it in the light.

His breathing is labored, "I… I didn't think it'd hurt that much."

She simply snorts in response. _Maybe it's even a laugh_.

The answering grin on his lips is lopsided, then it's distorted and by the time a grimace has settled on the hawk's features she has already dragged him over to the waste bin where it barely takes another second before he heaves up the meager content of his stomach.

Watching the pitiful sight that he provides the master spy tells herself that, _no, she doesn't feel sorry for him in the slightest_, because all things considered she should still be angry with him for throwing himself in front of a bullet that was _hers_ – the fact that seeing her partner being miserable makes her feel sick in the pit of her stomach is something she totally tries to ignore.

Without a another word and a barely suppressed sigh she puts both bullet and scalpel aside and wets a fresh towel with the rest of the now lukewarm water to clean Barton's face after he is done losing what little was left in his stomach.

Luckily for them there are bandages in the first kit of the cabin, his hissing and cursing even distracting her from the sweat glistening on his chest that she shouldn't need any distraction from in the first place.

Wanting to stare at him, _staring at him_, is something the Black Widow isn't used to – she never ogles men, she has no reason to. Having a reason would mean being tempted and being tempted means being killed and… and Clint Barton tempts her, _has done so since they they've first met_.

Frustrated she leans back to grab the almost empty vodka bottle, tacking a swing and then offering the rest to her partner.

At first he only looks at her, not moving an inch. There is _that_ look – _the_ look really, because she has seen it often enough over the last four years to become familiar with it – in his eyes again, the burning, the _intensity_ she cannot find the cause for. Slowly he takes the offered alcohol from her then, his cold fingers touching hers for a second, grey eyes never leaving her own.

When she is sure that he is occupied with the bottle Natasha continues in her task.

A shiver runs down his body when her fingers come in contact with his chest again and they both freeze. Clint closes his eyes and she stops breathing for a second, but his left hand is still on her hip and she is still sitting on him in the compromising position she has become way to acquainted with over the last few years.

This, _being tempted, wanting each other_, isn't new to them, but usually they just flirt a little, boldly get an eye full here and there and let it pass.

The last time they were in a position like this, their bodies this close, the smell of blood in the air, a bottle of vodka passed between them… the last time was Ekaterinburg, the day that changed her life – Natasha understands the implication, the possible significance of what is happening.

"…let's play a drinking game." his voice is a tad deeper than normal.

Raising a brow she lifts her head and looks at his face, but the hawk's eyes are still closed, his grip firm around the empty bottle. He looks like he is desperately trying to relax.

"Fine." she agrees immediately, because if she has a choice the Black Widow prefers going down with her head held high – and this is _exactly_ what agreeing to this crazy game that isn't really a game means. Damn Clint Barton, _damn him_.

"I ask a question, you answer. If you don't want to tell the truth you drink. The same goes the other way around, of course." grey eyes snap open at the last part and she wonders if someday she will be able to understand the look he gives her, his eyes filled with too many emotion at once for her to decipher the meaning behind his gaze.

Her tongue comes out to wet her dry lips – a subconscious sign of uncertainty she only allows herself in front of Barton, "Why did you beat up McConnell last year?"

He hasn't anticipated the question, and for a split second his eyes widen before an almost grin settles on his lips, "You couldn't let that one go, could you?"

She shrugs in response and he motions for the full bottle standing beside her – the redhead honestly feels a little disappointed that he won't indulge her, but then again Clint knows better than to give in to the Black Widow in sheep's clothing. Too bad, really.

Opening the bottle she gives the man laying under her a look that clearly tells him that he better not _dare_ try to move in any way. He is in enough pain as it is and she has had enough drama for the day already. Him making his injury even worse isn't something she going to let happen under her watch.

_Greedy_ is her immediate thought when Natasha puts the glass to his lips and watches him take a few big gulps of the vodka.

A few drops of the liquid remain on his lips when he is done, one running down the side of his mouth and then his neck before it is soaked up by the bandages – he catches her following it with her eyes, but then four years ago he did the same thing and they weren't even partners then… hell, she was _the enemy_ and that kind of distraction could have cost him his life if she hadn't been in so much pain.

"He insinuated that you only got a job with SHIELD because you fuck me." his eyes darken when he suddenly speaks and she is honest-to-god surprised.

…because Clint Barton is _angry_.

To her it was always obvious that this is the logical conclusion others will draw when they hear of their story – because really, Clint Barton is send to kill Natasha Romanoff but spares her and she has a change of heart and happily joins the organization that wanted to kill her afterwards sounds utterly ridiculous. She wouldn't have bought that crap either.

"The man was in medical for _two weeks_." she says, and it's almost an accusation because he has better self control than that.

Even half drunk the hawk doesn't miss a beat, "And he deserved it… you didn't make it to where you are now just because you have a great ass, and he should've known better than to speculate on how good you have to be on your knees for me to bring you back with me."

For a moment she just stares at him, unblinking, but then Natasha can't stop herself from chuckling before the sound coming from her throat changes into full-blown laughter in a matter of seconds – because he still has all those _morals_, this sense of right and wrong, this naivety, and it's hilarious and tragic at the same time.

Holding his gaze she ignores the anger lurking behind those dark grey eyes, "What did you expect? It's the most apparent conclusion."

"_Is not._" he is irritated that she doesn't take his side, furious that she won't see the injustice of the situation and most of all pouting like only a man can after a painful blow to his ego.

She rolls her eyes, "It's more plausible than the truth …and you can't honestly tell me that you didn't think about it."

A frown settles on his features at her words and she watches the gears in his head turning, sees it in his eyes the moment he understands what she is driving at – Clint's eyes widen a little, and suddenly his breathing is off, grey eyes boring into her own and some of the tension from earlier comes back.

"That's not the point." he shakes his head, careful not to strain the muscles in his shoulder, "You were weak to the point where you just fainted because you moved too fast. Even if I hadn't tied you to the bed I would've never…"

The sentence remains unfinished but she gets what he wants to say anyway. It's even kind of touching, his concern for her, _if she is honest with herself and around Clint Barton she tries to avoid that_, but also something she can't quite grasp – sympathy for the enemy is something they beat out of the Black Widow before she reached ten.

"I would have." she takes a gulp of the vodka, very aware of the pair of eyes watching her throat when she swallows, "…if fucking you would've been my only mean of survival, sure, I would've done it. You can't be picky when your life's on the line."

When there is no immediate response her eyes automatically wander back to his, and, _really_, having to look into his eyes to appease her inner insecurity is a sign of weakness she should've known better than to give.

His expression is too serious for a moment, and she becomes almost afraid of what he will say in return when the hawk's features suddenly morph into a half-grin, the harshness leaving his face like it was never there in the first place, "No offense taken. I would've done you too if the other option had been death… but then again I'm a healthy male, so the dying part wouldn't have been crucial if you'd been in better shape."

It's rare moments like this where Natasha notices that yes, she indeed affects him like she does every other man.

Usually Clint Barton seems almost immune to the Black Widow… not the fact that she is a trained assassin and able to kill him in a matter of minutes in close combat, _never that fact_, but the fact that she is a woman as beautiful as he has ever seen one, a woman that is as effective in seducing a man as she is in putting a bullet between his eyes – he just ignores it, looks at her with lust in his eyes but never touches, never indicates that he is tempted even when she _knows_ that he is.

Sometimes she just wants to-

"My turn." his voice yanks her out of her thoughts forcefully, "What is your type? …I mean if it's not a job you have to have one, too."

She just stares at him dumbly for a second, recording her partner's words but not actually getting what he is referring to. It takes her another three breaths to figure out what exactly he wants to know.

"I don't have a type." having one would make her weaker to certain men and of course she cannot allow that – though it's not like she's going to explain that to Barton.

He lifts an eyebrow, looking unimpressed, "You're a woman, everyone of you has a type."

Actually he is kind of right, but like hell will she ever tell him that the closest thing to a type she has is him – so the master spy stays silent. It's better having him wondering than the man actually knowing that she has something resembling a soft spot for him.

"Fine." he doesn't buy it, "Then make it a list: the top three people you'd sleep with."

They look at each other, green eyes and grey ones, drawn to one another like the moth to the flame.

"…me excluded, of course."

A relived sigh leaves Natasha's lips before she can think better of it – at least he defused the situation before it got out of hand… because strangely enough she and Clint Barton have made it a habit to not lie to each other if they don't have to, and the fact that you can cut the sexual tension between with a knife on a good day makes it pretty clear that _yes_, he would've definitely been on that list.

They are too close, she knows that. She shouldn't have given him the chance to worm his way inside her heart in the first place, but somehow, _from the beginning_, there was something different about him, _them_, and really _she should have killed him_.

The possibility however isn't there anymore, and now all the Black Widow – famous for always delivering, for never giving away a life – can do is slowly lift herself off Clint Barton, bringing space between them physically when she is unable to do it mentally.

"What are you doing?" he is confused and reluctant to let her get up, the hand on her hip holding on when he feels her warm body leaving his.

"You are cold." it's the truth, but she is just using it as an excuse to get off him… to not feel her partner under her the moment they start to talk about sex, because one of them has to break under the tension eventually and to be perfectly honest even she doesn't know which of them it will be.

Nothing else is said after that. He allows her to wrap him up in the blankets because his skin is indeed getting ice-cold, and after some shuffling she is leaning against one of the walls, her crossed legs almost touching the side of his. The position isn't very comfortable but allows them to make eye contact, the door safely at the other side of the room.

There aren't many things that feel better than the vodka burning down her throat, warmth pooling in her belly.

"I guess you're talking about people we both know." she asks and continues after a short nod, "That pretty much leaves only SHIELD employees… Benetton, then."

Clint growls in frustration, "Seriously, what is the matter with you women and that man? …he's old for God's sake."

She is not surprised by his reaction – it is the one younger men usually have when the conversation stirs towards Michael Benetton – nevertheless the redhead still can't suppress a grin at his incomprehension.

At almost fifty, with grey in his hair and the scars to prove his many years of field work Benetton isn't exactly the man society labels _desirable_. No one can deny that the men is charming though, and his sparkling blue eyes, deep, warm laughter and the fact that he has a _reputation_ just add to the overall attractiveness.

"He is _mature_. There's a difference there, Barton." she teases him, knowing how much the hawk dislikes it when she does that, correcting him.

"Old." the way he stretches the word makes it sound kind of ridiculous, and the tone of his voice and the fact that he lost a good amount of blood and hasn't eaten anything in some fifteen hours make it obvious to her that her partner is well on his way to being completely smashed.

"Whatever." answering would only mean giving in to his rising childishness and so she decides to continue with the list instead, "Awiti."

A blank look is all she gets in response. His eyes lock with hers but she can see that he isn't really paying attention, the gears in his head turning, trying to find out who she is talking about. He hasn't had much to do with the woman so she doesn't take offense that he doesn't immediately remember who she is talking about.

"Wait… you mean Traoré, as in _Commander fucking Traoré_?" the incredulous look he gives her amuses her almost as much as his wide eyes.

Handing him the bottle he motions for Natasha gives her partner her best Cheshire grin, "The one."

"She's a woman." it almost looks like he wants to inhale the vodka. Then, on an afterthought, he adds, "You are on first name basis."

"I know and yes we are." that's not what he wants to know, _not the question his eyes are asking_, but she won't make it easy for him just because he is half-drunk and took a bullet for her. It will become a habit if she does – another one that a master assassin like her in reality can't afford to have.

Grey eyes narrow, scrutinizing the Widow's form against the background of the wooden cabin wall, "Why?"

"Kenya." he knows where the faint scar on her left knee comes from, "The mission went to hell, but she's a good leader. She has fire, pride… she does not fear me, never has and never will. You where there four years ago, I put a knife to her throat and she laughed in my face. She is like me."

…_she knows how it is too have blood on your hands too young, she knows how it is being a child and fighting the war of an adult, she is the only person in SHIELD who was younger than me when they made their first kill…_ these are the things she doesn't say, doesn't voice out loud because Clint wouldn't understand. It is the truth between two child soldiers, the part of their reality others will never be fully able to grasp.

This time he hands her the bottle, "It's not… sexual."

Sometimes she has the urge to protect him, the tiny bit of innocence still remaining in Clint Barton, "That rarely is what sex is about."

His eyes bore into her own and the look on his face is pensive, but he knows better than to ask and remains silent instead – waits for the last person Natasha still has to name if she doesn't want to hand the victory of their little game to him before things have really started.

Putting the bottle to her lips gives her a few more seconds to consider, "…Ross."

Her partner grimaces, "He's a douchebag."

Well, she can't argue with that. The man isn't the nicest of people and agents partnered with him usually want to go for his throat after less than a full day in his company.

"The guy's annoying, insensible, has a big mouth and-"

She shrugs, interrupting him because it's not like she wants to be friends or even acquaintances with Ross, "…and if SHIELDs gossiping female agents are any indication he knows how to put it to good use."

Barton blinks once, "That's… well, a valid argument, I guess. You don't have to like him to fuck him."

At least there is one thing they wholeheartedly agree on tonight – she'd preferred if it had been the fact that no, he doesn't put himself between a bullet and her, but obviously it is never that easy with Clint Barton. He man is as bad at taking orders as she is.

The vodka bottle is half empty by now, with him considerably more intoxicated than her, but neither is it the Widow's job to take care of how much he drinks nor does she want it to be. Alcohol can be your best friend in their line of work, and if it actually helps to numb the burning pain he has to be feeling in his shoulder that's an added plus.

"When was the last time you cried?" the question is out before her mouth-brain filter kicks in and she honestly can't say where it came from.

He seems less surprised by the question than she is, "Afghanistan."

Wordlessly she passes the bottle over again and _yes_ she has noticed, noticed that he answers first and then drinks, ridding himself of the excuse that everything one of them says after they have swallowed a gulp of vodka can be as much the truth as it can be a lie.

"I was just the sniper." closing his eyes he hides the pain in them from her, "Find the target, aim, shot, get out, find the next target… it's easy pretending that it's not your war, that you have nothing to do with it, that anything else isn't your responsibility… until they start killing the women and the kids under you window and you can't do anything because _it's not your fucking job_."

When Clint opens his eyes again she can see the bitterness in his gaze, the agony over not being allowed to do anything because it wasn't what he was there for – she understands it, understands it all the more with every passing day she spends in SHIELD.

Before she is fully aware of what she is doing Natasha has reached out, her cold fingers squeezing his even colder ones. He squeezes back however before she can withdraw her hand and doesn't let go after that.

His eyes are burning into her own _again_, _Barton why can't you stop looking at me like that_, but she doesn't look away. It's the one thing she just can't do, to look away from those grey eyes that never fail to draw her in. She should, should look away because if she doesn't they will become entangled to the point where she can't pull away anymore and feelings will get hurt.

"When was the last time you screamed in pain?" his voice is soft and she can't hide her shock at the question fast enough for him not to see.

Even with all the alcohol in his blood he still remembers her words from earlier, her assertion that his level of pain tolerance and her level of pain tolerance cannot be compared – she curses his attentiveness in her head.

This time there is no vodka involved on her part either, "I don't know exactly. When I was nine or ten."

Suddenly his hand holding hers doesn't feel quite as childish anymore, even though she knows that there is no point in feeling anger or fear or hurt over an event that has happened decades ago. It can't be undone, it is a part of the things that make her who she is… but still, somewhere inside Natasha is very well aware that it destroyed a part of her, one of the many she has forever lost.

"It was a bay and it was cold, but I remember that it wasn't winter. Spring maybe… they had broken the ice, the water temperature must've been barely above zero… my _instructor_ told me to strip down, walk in until the water covered my shoulders and stay there for thirty minutes… I made the mistake of asking for the purpose of the exercise." cutting irony is thick in her words.

He doesn't ask what happened after that, not with words at least.

"His answer was to have two men hold me and strip me down before he pulled off his belt, made me count the lashes on my back and _then_ threw me in the water." her voice is emotionless, "I knew better than to question my superiors after that."

"I'm sorry." there is a strange look in his eyes, one that she can't stand.

"I don't need your pity, Barton, nor do I want it." and she means it. Pity is one of the things Natasha Romanoff can't stand – it's an useless emotion, because what is past can't be taken back. It is for the weak.

A soft sigh echoes through the room, "It's not pity, it's sympathy. There's a difference."

She tells herself that they are both too tired to argue and it's partially true, but the other part of the truth is that she doesn't want to quarrel with her partner at the moment, not when what he says sounds almost comforting.

"Have you ever fucked a man?" they need a change of subject.

"Such crass language on such a beautiful woman." he is taunting her alright, but it's not as if she cares. Usually is language is includes way more swear words than hers… besides that's exactly what it usually is, not sleeping with each other, not making love, _fucking_ – plain and simple.

The light is bright enough for her to see her partner's slight blush when she hands him the vodka, the alcohol doing nothing to lessen the pink color in his cheeks, "Once."

It takes him longer than it would normally have to form a sentence, but the fact that even three sheets to the wind Clint Barton _can_ still form coherent sentences, his speech a little deeper and a little less sharp than usually, is impressive, "I kind of got in over my head… that's what you get when you are still half teenager and think you can win a fight when it's clear you can't… I mean it was good, he was good, but it didn't sit well with my ego that it was me on the bottom in the end. Stupid, really, should've just enjoyed it…"

Something resembling a somewhat embarrassed, blissful smile settles on his face in the end and Natasha can't help but let her lips curl into an amused smile of her own. She's not really surprised by how it happened, just the fact that he can acknowledge the mistake he made back then.

Her partner yawns and she can see that the alcohol is taking full effect now, "What's… your favorite part of sex?"

_That_ is a question she hasn't anticipated at all, and if his eyes were still open he would be able to see the utter surprise in her face at his words.

Sex is something she is no longer embarrassed about however, "Oral."

Carefully untying her finger from his she gets up, picking up the dirty towels and the empty water bucket to put it aside before she turns off one of the gas lamps and takes the second with her when she walks over to the generator still buzzing in the far corner of the cabin.

"Why?" if he hadn't asked after she has turned the generator off Natasha would've doubted that she'd understood what he'd been saying – even without the background noise his voice is barely more than a whisper in the otherwise silent room.

He is almost asleep when she comes to stand beside the makeshift bed again, and she is sure that even if she gives him an answer now Clint won't remember it by morning. He looks peaceful though, and if they are lucky they'll get a few good hours of sleep until sunrise.

"Come to bed, Моя дорогая."

She stills in the middle of kicking off her boots to look at the man in front of her in wonder. His eyes are barely cracked open, a gentle smile playing on his lips when he slowly lifts his good arm from below the blankets to reach for her.

_Either she is dreaming or he is_, Natasha decides while she slips out of the heavy parka, letting it drop to the floor right beside the bed. Slowly sinking to her knees she puts out the last lamp, the room getting dark the moment his fingers grasp hers – his grip is unexpectedly strong when he pulls her under the covers and against his warm body, her head coming to rest on his shoulder and his arm lying on her waist in a gesture she'd have never allowed if she'd been even half awake by that point.

A voice in the back of her head tells her that she will regret this in the morning, but Natasha ignores it and lets herself be lulled to sleep by Clint's deep, even breathing.

* * *

_I don't know what to say about the ending, honestly. It fits somehow, but I still think there's something missing here..._

___[Моя дорогая means 'my dear']_

**I love all of your reviews.**


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